


it's so beautiful when the boy smiles

by thescyfychannel



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M, but her presence makes it into what it is, it might just be a simple moment, maybe nothing momentous, the turning tides
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-22
Updated: 2013-11-22
Packaged: 2018-01-02 07:43:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1054238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thescyfychannel/pseuds/thescyfychannel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You knew that your job would be troublesome from the start.<br/>But you never thought it would be this <i>hard.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	it's so beautiful when the boy smiles

When push comes to shove, seagrifts are superstitious, whether they're highblooded or low. You learned that early on, during your first command. Some poor bastard had dropped a hatch down the hold, and it didn't matter that his blood was purple when your blue-blooded first mate had him keelhauled with a mouth full of salt.

(It didn't matter that it was your command, that you'd been on and off ships all of your life. Everyone knew that a seadweller was handed a command and a commission straight out of the Academy, that the first mate ran the show until they knew that the finned bastard was worth his feed.)

Two months later, your first mate accidentally wished you good luck, and he'd looked almost grateful when you punched him in the nose.

 

Even some of the lowblood superstitions started rubbing off on you. You learned the names of their gods, the legends and trolls they feared, and the lucky few amongst your number spoke of their Ancestors. The spookiest tales were shared on the clearest, brightest nights, after everyone was roaring drunk.

Some of the lusus tales your Seahorsedad told you were exceedingly real to these lowbloods, and you found yourself swearing by the Demoness, the Handmaid of Lord Death. Even if she was a lowblood, she was supposedly more powerful than any other troll (and she was spoken of in whispers, for fear of the Condesce and the Handmaid herself). Lord Death was the Skull Man, the Green Robed One, and the stories about him were told at a volume that made the Handmaid's tales sound like shouting.

The nights after a death occurred (there weren't that many, first commands were always an easy sail), everyone who wasn't on duty would get drunk and sing and dance. No one wanted to be the somber one, the lonely one, the one who would attract the Demoness's attention next.

 

By the time you finished that first voyage, you'd learned nearly every superstition, and your hair was so long that next to none of your sweepmates had recognized you. The last day before your shore leave was up, you had your hair cropped short, and bought a set of hairbands and violet ribbons. Tying your hair back with a piece of twine was hardly suitable for a captain, but the high winds were not kind to visibility, and necessity trumped vanity.

When you strode out onto the deck, right foot first, your crewmates greeted you warmly, and something settled deep inside you. This was exactly where you were meant to be.

 

* * *

 

The first time you meet the Demoness, you're on the day watch, and she's striding across the decks as if the sun doesn't give her a lick of trouble. If you hadn't thought her to be some sort of inexplicable rustblooded apparition, you might've shot, which would've certainly been the end of you. But the hazy view of her from under the hood of your daycloak is baffling enough to give you pause, and by the time you'd even think of shooting, the great spirals of her horns are visible, along with the bright green she wears.

You swear under your breath, and she smiles at you. Then you blink, and she's gone.

Even if you had been willing to write it off as an apparition, she'd left something behind—a caeger-like disc that had been stamped with a curling symbol on the obverse, and a cross between a clock and a compass on the reverse. The compass caeger was something you would never show anyone, despite the thousands of burning questions that accompanied its appearance.

 

 

When the rest of the crew came above decks with the evening's dark, they joked that you'd seen a ghost. You stalked below deck without another word, and they spent the next quarter perigee on their best behavior, trying to avoid the lash of your ill temper.

 

* * *

 

The next several centuries are filled with denial. No, you don't give a flyin' fuck that you're killin' lusii. It's your job description, you are merely the servant of a higher power. The Orphaner to her Majesty, the Imperial Condescension. And then a particularly nasty fight leaves you with two scars that nearly frame your face, and it becomes your title. The Orphaner Dualscar, most feared troll to sail the Alternian Seas.

You became the dark shadow in the night, the lusus-killer, the hunter of the greatest things to fly, walk, and swim.

And you were so fuckin' _lonely._

 

The next time you meet the Demoness, you're a good bit more than halfway to being drunk, and you toast her with the bottle.

"Fuckin' 'ell, just vvhat vve need, the Demonessesses!" There's an extra ess in there somewhere, maybe two, but that doesn't really matter. No, you've just found a blackrom that's solid and fierce and cerulean as the sea. "Come to join me, aye? There's MORE than enough for the likes a—" and you don't really get to finish, because she plucks the bottle neatly from your hand and sets _her_ hand on your shoulder, applying gentle pressure until you find yourself slumped against the rail of the fo'castle.

You're nearly certain that you hear an exasperated sigh, and you sort of think she rolls her eyes at you. It's hard to tell, and you're doing a damn good job, considering that you're outnumbered by...four Demonesses to one Dualscar.

She doesn't actually talk, not audibly, at least, but there's some sort of grumbling in there. And you'd swear that she might've carried you over one shoulder. Damn strong for a rustblood, then.

 

Anyway, you wake up in your 'coon, sunk deep in the sopor and stripped down to your boxers. When you resurface, there's another of the compass-coins resting on the lip of your recuperacoon, and the full bottle of your best rum that you'd been about to open is half-empty and waiting on your table.

  


  
The second coin goes with the first, and you're very glad to be a highblood the next time your kismesis attempts a raid on your mind.

 

* * *

 

Some part of you is eager to meet her again. Her visits proved your sense of self-importance. After all, she wouldn't appear if you weren't necessary to the history of Alternia, right? The lowbloods tell grand tales of glimpsing her during battles, or particularly important events. But they can't seem to agree if the events are momentous points in Alternian history, or portentous events that tell of things to come, and you scoff at their debates until the mutant's execution.

The conclusion you come to is turning tides. A point where everything could have gone differently, and might have, were it not for her careful guidance over the fate of your people.

 

She stands in the background, so quietly that she might easily be mistaken for another woolbeast-like lowblood—and indeed, that's how most of the crowd seems to see her. Not you, though. There's no way she could hide from you, and the moment the execution is over and the traitor (was that guilt? Why would you feel guilt for a mutant, a freak, a troll you never knew? _A friend, someone who listened, Kankri_ ) is dead, you push through the crowd, catching up with her easily.

It's your turn to drop your hand, heavy on her shoulder, hardly caring about propriety as you spin her around

                 .and she flips a coin at you 

 

Your hand flies up on instinct, and the second you feel cool metal touch your palm, she's gone, leaving you to swear about clockwork majykks to a rapidly diminishing crowd.

 

The significance of her appearance didn't dawn on you until much later. She'd shown up on your second voyage, the day after your first real fight with a gamblignant. And again, after you had solidified your kismesisstude with the Marquise Spinneret Mindfang (such a presumptuous appellation for a ceruleanblood). Turning tides.

Despite your violet blood, you found yourself breaking out in a cold sweat. Suddenly, the prospect of seeing her again wasn't such a pleasant one.

Oh, certainly, it had been nice to think that you were important, that you could change the whole path of the world. But that had been speculation, this was a cold fact that settled into the palm of your hand, like the weight of her coin. No. No, you needed to speak with her, and you knew just how to bring a meeting about.

 

Turning neatly on your heel, you marched towards the slave market. No one even dared to match your price, and in a few hours, the jadeblood (and a few other slaves) were secured on your ship.

 

* * *

 

She didn't appear at first, and you didn't react very well to that. It's true that you've never been particularly patient, and this wasn't any exception. Your attempts to threaten the jadeblood in the hopes of sparking a confrontation with the rustblood gets you, of all things, _shooshed_.

"I am NOT some vvriggler to be papped into submission, slavve!" You snarl down at her, fins flared, utterly threatening.

And she levels an arch look at you, arms crossed, more regal than any highblood in her slave's rags. "I know. You are a _large_ wriggler who needs to stop blaming others for things that he cannot control." The fact that she wasn't cowed, that she actually had the gall to speak to you in such a way, well. It throws you long enough for her to get in a parting shot before she returns to her work. "At any rate, most of the wrigglers I knew were better behaved than you."

 

For some reason, you don't punish her for such behavior. Maybe it's sheer novelty value. Other than Mindfang, most other trolls who might think of standing up to you are either dead or too frightened to do it. Perhaps it might've been better to tolerate the slightest bit of insubordination, if only for the sake of better conversation.

But for some reason, you find yourself speaking to her again, and again. Ordering her to clean your cabin is the easiest way to hold conversations without being overheard, and eventually you find yourself telling her things you haven't shared with another soul. It's odd. It's unfamiliar. It's frighteningly pale.

 

The night that one of you finally brings it up (and it's you, surprisingly, and she laughs fondly, _I thought it needn't be said aloud_ , and you grin at her as she pats your cheek), you find yourself on the day watch again. Voluntarily, of course, as you would never let it be said that you didn't do your share (and more than). You've brought along a bottle of some bubbly fruit juice. No sense in ordering sobriety amongst the crew and disobeying the rule yourself.

It doesn't take long for her to appear, and this time you've got two cups along with you. "No alcohol on duty. Should I assume that this particular vvisit is in regards to the Do—the jadeblood?"

The Handmaid regards you passively, then inclines her head just the slightest amount. You fill both cups, with the skill that's only born from sweeps of practice, and pass one off to her. She doesn't thank you, doesn't say anything. "If you're not plannin' to talk, this is going to be borin'."

That wins you a shrug, and you have to bite back a sigh. As tempted as you are to ask if your shiny new moirail will be alright, the answer's plain as starlight: If the Handmaid's come to visit, the tides are turning yet again. You hold your cup out, toasting her silently. "Guard her soul for me, then."

Another nod, and she taps the rim of her cup against yours.

 

She's gone by the time your watch is over, and her cup sits empty next to you. When you lift it up, there's another coin beneath it, the fourth one so far.

This is the one thing you don't tell the Dolorosa, no matter what else you find yourself admitting to her.

 

* * *

 

You meet her again as you stride out of Mindfang's cabin, rain pouring down around you. You don't feel it, though some of your kismesis's sailors are shivering under the downpour. The look that the Handmaid gives you verges on apologetic, and you ignore it, ignore her, crossing the deck quickly. Right now, you want nothing more than to be back on your own ship, in your own cabin, without the memory of what you've just seen.

So this is why she'd shown up for your moiraillegiance. Some part of you regretted your desire to meet her once more. Perhaps if you hadn't purchased the jadeblood, she would never have been with the other slaves when Mindfang had raided. The rest of you was snarling for vengeance, for cerulean blood pouring from a torn throat. Your kismesis had finally gone too far.

 

There was another caegar resting on your desk, and you barely paused to pick it up before you dropped into your 'coon.

 

* * *

 

She didn't show up when you leveled the Crosshairs. Didn't appear when you pulled the trigger. Nothing. Not even as you watched deepest jade spill across the decks.

This wasn't momentous. It wasn't a turning tide.

 

You hope the decks stained.

 

* * *

 

The last time you see her, you're waiting to be announced to the Grand Highblood, and you manage to ignore her for a while.

"I would much prefer that you did not do this."

It's the first time you've ever heard her speak, and it's different than you expected. There's a hollow sort of echo in there, and you think of clockwork. "You're hardly goin' to stop me. If you're here, it's _necessary_ , isn't it." There's more than a hint of bitterness in your voice, and you don't react when she holds a sixth coin out to you. "I'vve more than enough to pay my toll, tvvice ovver. Keep your caegar."

"Take it. Please."

If she had said anything but that, you might have refused. But you take a deep breath, and reach out to take the coin from her hand

but wait. The second you have it, she'll vanish, won't she?

 

"Ansvver me somethin' first." She blinks at you, as if startled by this turn of events. "VVill I see you again?"

Death's Handmaid looks you over for a moment. Then you think she smiles for a moment, but it's the quickest flash of teeth, and her hand tips sideways over yours and she's gone the moment the coin leaves her skin.

 

The door swings open.

 

* * *

 

It's not so bad, being dead. You don't need a crew to sail your ships, and the sun's heat doesn't send you running for shelter. No one cares if you get drunk on the day watch, and the courses you plot through your memories of open ocean are free of the sea monsters you once hunted for the worst monster of all. For a moment, you wonder how your once-flush-love was doing, and promptly decide you don't care.

Death is better that way. Uncaring, unthinking, and free of anything that might cause you pain or regret.

_(You really don't want to see either of them again. They'll hate you.)_

 

* * *

 

You can feel it, the moment she enters your memories, but you haven't the fortitude to greet her. When she finally finds you, leaning against the fo'castle's railing, like you had been doing so many nights ago (it had been your first day watch ever), you hold out the bottle without sparing her a glance. "S'easier if you're drunk too."

She dumps a bucket of seawater over your head.

 

The next sweep or so passes like that. You'll get completely wasted, and she'll toss you overboard, shoving you back in the water until she judges that you've sobered up enough to be tolerable. Then you'll set to work on the necessary ship repairs, grumbling all the while. It takes you a while to realize that her eyes are as white as yours.

Eventually, you'll start talking to her. Some night, you'll take a meal together.

 

And somewhere down the line, she'll tell you that the coins were hand-carved, a pet project of hers, an excuse to see you again. A mystery to keep you guessing.

And maybe you'll kiss her, and maybe you'll say that she doesn't need excuses. After all, there's no one left to judge the dead, and you've never needed an excuse to miss her.

 

_You were the Orphaner Dualscar, formerly the most feared troll to sail the Alternian Seas. You were the dark shadow in the night, the lusus-killer, the hunter of the greatest things to fly, walk, and swim._

_And you're not so lonely any longer._

**Author's Note:**

> This story is for titenoute, the mod of Ask the Sheepmaid! ((It's an absolutely wonderful askblog, go check it out: http://askthesheepmaid.tumblr.com))
> 
> Song:  
> Breathe (2 AM) by Anna Nalick ((http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jHEj4cRhm3E))


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